


I Am, I Am, I Am

by RavenWhitecastle



Series: The Sinner and the Saint [6]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cardiophilia, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Heartbeats, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 02:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenWhitecastle/pseuds/RavenWhitecastle
Summary: John was fine. He was there, in the penthouse, alive. But Harold, irrationally attached and overly concerned, needs to assure himself. Takes place immediately after S03E10.





	I Am, I Am, I Am

John was fast asleep. The steady unhurried beeping of the heart monitor accompanied by John’s even breathing certainly suggested he was. It was the opportune moment. It was the only moment.

Harold knew it was foolish. John was alive. He was right there, in the penthouse. Alive. But after having nearly lost John twice consecutively- once in the shootout with Simmons, and again in Alonzo Quinn’s safehouse- Harold was still… uncertain. Not to mention the sniper on the roof at John’s rendezvous with Agent Snow. Harold shuddered to think of how many times he’d nearly lost his partner. It unsettled him. He had to find some reassurance. He couldn’t stop himself.

The old doctor’s kit was a bit of a remnant from the time he spent taking care of his father. Harold had never really used it- it had been an impulsive purchase in case he needed it later. But it had all the essentials- a thermometer, a blood pressure cuff, syringes, and thankfully, a stethoscope, with a double-headed diaphragm and black rubber tubing. Harold had tested it on himself when it had arrived and then it went forgotten, buried with the rest until now.

Harold settled in the chair next to the bed, wincing as the wood creaked beneath him, but John didn’t stir. Holding his breath, Harold put the stethoscope on, adjusted the earpieces, and placed the bell on John’s chest.

And there it was. John’s heartbeat, the steady thumping of life within his chest. Harold was consumed by it. _Th-thump_. A brief pause. _Th-thump_. It was slower than Harold’s own, especially then. Partially because John was unconscious while Harold was awake and all nerves, partially because John was younger and fit. A toned body and regular physical activity meant a slower resting heart rate. But Harold wasn’t concerned with science. All he could think about was the steady rhythm in his ears and what that rhythm meant. _Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Alive. Alive. Alive_.

He wasn’t aware he’d been crying until he closed his eyes and the tears slipped over onto his cheeks. He hurried to wipe them away with the edge of his sleeve. It was stupid, he was being stupid. John was fine. John was always fine.

The steady beating in his ears was getting faster. Harold’s brow furrowed. He opened his eyes and looked to John, whose eyes were open and looking at the stethoscope pressed to his chest. No, not the stethoscope- Harold’s hand.

Harold practically ripped the stethoscope out of his ears and balled it up on his lap. John was awake, he’d caught Harold redhanded. Harold thought he’d have a few more minutes before John came to, but he’d lost track of time. How long had he been listening? He felt his face turn red. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Reese,” he greeted, his voice sounding smaller and more strangled than he would have liked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” John replied. His gaze met Harold. “What were you doing, Finch?”

Harold swallowed. “Just a check-up,” he lied, “I have some basic medical training from… another time in my life. Our surgeon friend instructed me on what to look out for, and I figured I would give you a once-over now, because why bother you with the-”

“Finch.” John’s voice stopped his rambling mid-sentence. The younger man studied him with startlingly blue eyes. The drugs had taken some of the shine, but they still held all the knowing Harold had grown accustomed to and somewhat fond of.

“I should let you rest,” Harold exclaimed, standing.

John raised a staying hand. “Sit,” he commanded. Harold obeyed.

When John didn’t break the silence, Harold mustered his courage. “I apologize for… invading your personal space,” he managed, “and your privacy. We both value that much, and a heart is a somewhat intimate- or, rather, personal- I mean…” His thoughts stuttered to a halt. John’s steady gaze wasn’t helping. “I’m sorry,” he finished.

At long last, John spoke again. “Before the attack on the World Trade Center,” he said, his voice thick, “I would lay with Jessica, with my head on her chest.” He paused again. “It was grounding, in a way. I could hardly believe I’d gotten so lucky. I didn’t think I deserved her, and sometimes I doubted that she was real. But… listening to her heartbeat, feeling her breathing… it reminded me that she was real, and she was mine.” There was another pause, and John’s eyes reunited with Harold’s. “I’m real, Finch,” he echoed, “and I’m alive. Only thanks to you.” Harold was surprised to see his own emotion reflected in John’s eyes. “You saved my life more than once. And I can’t…” John trailed off. His unspoken gratitude hovered between them. Finally, he finished. “You can listen as long as you want.”

That took Harold by surprise. He hadn’t expected John to be so vulnerable with him. Perhaps the morphine drip was turned up a bit too high, but Harold wasn’t complaining.

John was reaching out. Harold almost took John’s hand in his, until he realized he was pointing at the medical instrument he was still clutching. Flushing again, Harold passed it to John, who took the bell and replaced it on his chest, before holding out the earpiece for Harold.

Hesitantly, Harold took it and replaced the earpiece. Once again, his ears were filled with the sound of John’s steady pulse. He clung to the earpieces, since he couldn’t cling to John, and John was holding the diaphragm in place. Barely above a whisper, Harold murmured, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” John replied. It rumbled up from his chest and made Harold’s head vibrate. He found he didn’t mind. He just closed his eyes and listened, like John had told him to. _Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Alive. Alive. Alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is shamelessly self indulgent and I have no problem admitting it. I couldn't resist writing a cardiophilia piece for these characters, I just had to.  
> The title is from a Sylvia Plath poem titled "The Bell Jar."


End file.
